


The Lust of the Mind

by HarbingerofWhimsy (WhimsicalCivet)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Background Iron Bull/Dorian, Damn it Jim!, F/M, Humor, Inquisitor's Journal, Mystery, Nightmares, Prompt Fic, Romance, Sexual Content, Shenanigans, Trust Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mild PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 02:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6219592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalCivet/pseuds/HarbingerofWhimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not his fault the journal ends up in his hands. And surely no one could fault him for taking a peek to make sure she's alright? And just who IS that mystery man she's so infatuated with?</p><p>In which Cullen gains possession of the Inquisitor's journal while she's away, and gets far more than he bargained for between the descriptions of nightmares and the fantasies he can't help but imagine inserting himself into (giggity). Let's just hope curiosity doesn't  kill the lion, too.</p><p>Probably will up the rating with the next chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lust of the Mind

**Author's Note:**

> "Curiosity is the lust of the mind."
> 
> For a random prompt: "Cullen gets the Inquisitor's journal while she's away from Skyhold! How long can he resist the urge to read it?"

Normally, nothing all that exciting occurred while the Inquisitor was away from Skyhold. Cullen had more than enough paperwork and daily duties to fill his time—duties he usually pushed aside in favor of War Council meetings and chess matches when Guinevere was in residence. It was soothing for the both of them, and gave them an opportunity to try their hands at normalcy. In short, she was a distraction he was all too happy to avail himself of, which meant more work when she was gone.

He rolled his neck and leaned back in his chair, arching his spine until his vertebrae crackled like old firewood. How long had he been sitting? He'd been up before the dawn, foregoing anything more than the most basic morning training session before retreating back to his office. He'd worked through lunch, shucked his armor hours ago, and the sky was darkening outside now, streaks of peach-pink fading quickly into soft, sullen shades of blue. His protesting back had been worth it: his desk was mostly clear, the pile of letters, requisitions, and orders resting neatly stacked and ready for delivery at the corner. When the Inquisitor returned in a few days, he'd be able to enjoy their long talks without any guilt; or, at least, guilt of the duty-related kind. He carried enough already from his ill-advised infatuation. No need to add to it.

He was just considering whether or not to head down to the Herald's Rest for a well-deserved meal when there came an urgent knocking at his office door. Cullen frowned, rising to his feet to stride around his desk towards the door. He'd already had the afternoon messages delivered, and things had been quiet all day. An attack, maybe?

 _Maker's breath_ , he thought as he jerked the door open. It would be just their luck to have Corypheus show himself while Guinevere was off clearing out a nest of bandits.

Jim blinked back at him, hand still raised to knock again. There was a pause, and Jim looked just guilty enough, all darting eyes and flushed cheeks, to set off alarm bells in Cullen's mind, even though that particular expression of the scout’s wasn’t exactly unfamiliar by this point. Yes?" Cullen prompted after a moment. "You have something?"

Jim saluted. "Commander. I'm afraid we had a small accident."

"Go on, then," Cullen said firmly, already dreading what was coming next. Probably a scuffle between the men, which wasn't unusual now and then when they had nothing better to do. Some formations in the valley below might be in order, though, if they were already getting into trouble.

"I'm afraid it's better if we show you, Commander."

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen stared at the sopping mess on the Inquisitor's desk for only a moment before he shook his head and went into action. One of the servants had already begun to pat at the papers and soaked books where ink leaked from the open pages to dribble along the dark wood. He snatched the texts up first, plucking them out of the puddles and setting them aside.

"What happened?" he asked, annoyance giving his tone a harsher bite than he intended.

"I was helping to bring in a package, Ser," Jim said with a wince, joining in to help mop up some of the water with a rag. Said ribbon-festooned package was sitting cheerfully in the corner against the shelves where it had been tossed away in the chaos. "We were told to leave it on her desk, but it was so crowded so we sort of, um... knocked over that vase there. The one with the bow."

He couldn't exactly fault the man for his clumsiness considering the desk's current condition. Guinevere had clearly left in a hurry. Some of the letters were still unfinished, history books and other tomes scattered across the desk with her usual sense of ordered chaos. She also had a habit of leaving interesting but pointless knick-knacks around the edges: stones and dragon scales, carved teeth and feathers. Little statues had been sitting on some of the letters in what he knew was her way of marking a missive's progress towards completion. He carefully lifted the letters, and only hoped they didn’t carry sensitive information as he laid them out, but fortunately, it looked as if the only people who'd had a chance to snoop had been Jim and the servant.

The garishly-painted vase laying across the desk he couldn't care less for. It had been delivered by a noble, clearly, since it was full of flowers that Guinevere didn't even _like_ : too heavily scented for her taste, and a riot of colors that forced the eye away before it risked going blind. She received gifts like those once a week it seemed, and the only reason this one hadn't been tossed yet was that it had arrived after she'd left.

 _If they really wanted to please her, they'd have gotten her dragon flowers._ Blue dragon flowers, specifically. Not that he was smug about being privy to that sort of information. Cullen shook his head and set the vase on the floor.

Jim scuffed a foot. "I'm very sorry, Commander. I didn't know who else to tell, since the letters might be important, and the Spymaster is a little scary."

"Just be more careful next time," Cullen sighed. Well, he knew what he was going to spend his evening doing. "Help me get these books and papers back up to my office so I can dry them out.”

He didn't have high hopes for some of the parchment, but his tower was dry and cool thanks to the hole in his roof, and he'd be able to keep them mostly out of sight from prying eyes while he did what he could. The stacks of books and letters made for a precarious armful, but between the two of them, they managed to carry it all in one trip. They arranged the worst-off books upright across his desk atop more rags to catch the draining water.

"Anything else I can do, Commander?" Jim said, fluttering his hands. He clearly wanted to be helpful, but Cullen wasn't so sure that was a good thing at this point.

"No, Jim, that will be all. I'll take care of the rest."

As soon as the scout was gone, Cullen set about his task. Most of the letters hadn't fared well, ink smeared until the pages were nothing but a shapeless mess of black, but he laid out the better ones in hopes that something could be divined from the few words that remained. He didn't dare open the worst-damaged books, since that would risk tearing the pages, and left those to drain. Some books were only partially wet, and he was able to space rags throughout the pages, setting them aside as well. A few of the texts looked untouched, fortunately - a few titles on ancient Tevinter, lyrium, and an unlabeled book with a worn brown cover. A glance through the former assured him only their outer covers had been touched by water. Fortunately, none of the works appeared to be irreplaceable.

Curious, he drew down the last book. It looked well-used, the spine cracked along the dark leather, still damp with water. It even smelled a little like her, the scent faint but recognizable. _A favorite book, then_. He flipped it open towards the middle, though it didn't appear to be wet inside at all. His eyes skated over the words without truly reading them until one line caught his attention:

_'—what he would say if he knew I saw him that night, but it isn't like I can say anything, and I can't stop thinking about him. He looks at me and my heart starts racing—'_

Cullen's brow furrowed, and he flipped to the first page, another sentence catching his eye near the bottom where the writing was shakiest, as if written with a trembling hand.

_'—and it just keeps burying me until I can't breathe. I hear voices calling for me, and I try to move, to signal or scream, but nothing comes out and I can't move, and then the voices leave and I'm alone again.'_

A journal. It was Guinevere's _journal_. It took everything in him not to toss the thing away in his shock, as if the very touch of his hands would be enough for her to sense, leagues away, that someone had peeked inside; not only that, but seen something so very clearly private. The way the lines faltered made that clear enough. She'd been _scared_. The sudden upwelling of concern, more than anything, had him skipping back to the beginning of the page, dated just a few weeks after the destruction of Haven.

_'Since my last journal wasn't exactly priority when they were carrying the books out of Haven—thank you, Coryphasshole—I suppose it's time to start a new one, especially with the new nightmares. But now that I've apparently become more important ('Darkspawn magister trying to kill me personally' is a new level, I think), I'll be a little more careful. Try not to use as many names, you know._

_I would have written sooner, but apparently I was unconscious for a good long while after almost becoming the Herald of frostbite (really tired of being found like that). Was a surprise waking up next to Lion, both of us naked as our namedays. Some sort of trick for keeping people warm._ That _was an interesting conversation, and he was incredibly polite considering how_ happy _his body seemed that I was awake, though I was far from upset, as you well know, not the least because I was rather happy to be alive myself.'_

Maker's breath, she was talking about _him._ His cheeks flushed red, the back of his neck burning. He remembered that moment, curled up close behind her, skin-to-skin, drawn up out of sleep by her shifting. His body had responded as well: an embarrassing, if normal, reaction both for a man just waking up, and one with a woman he desired lying naked in his arms. At least she truly didn't seem to mind: a small consolation, for all that her reassurances _then_ had been borne out here in her journal.

He shook his head and read on. He needed to find that line that he’d found so worrisome.

_'It was a comfort having someone there, though. Just to be sure I was alright, they wouldn't let me sleep by myself for the first few nights after I woke. Now I'm alone again, and I find myself wishing he was here, because the nightmares I mentioned are back, and worse: almost every night now. Not just that future haunting me, but seeing Haven burn, and being trapped and suffocating in the snow, too. Those are the worst, for some reason. All that white with no sign of anyone, and it just keeps burying me until I can't breathe. I hear voices calling for me, and I try to move, to signal or scream, but nothing comes out and I can't move, and then the voices leave and I'm alone again._

_It was better with him there, when I could wake up and touch his arm around my waist, feel his heartbeat at my back, his breath on my neck, and know I wasn't alone and buried under a mountain's-worth of snow and ice. But I'm not going to bother him. He has his own worries and I won't ask more of him, especially not when it's simply because the great Herald is bothered by a few nightmares that she should be able to control._

_I just wish they would stop.'_

He slammed the book shut with a growl, abruptly furious with himself as he whirled towards the door. Guilt stifled his lingering curiosity, his frustration. It didn't matter that he wished she'd told him of her problems, or that—even then—he'd have gladly curled up beside her each and every night if it would have given her some comfort, and still would. This journal was _private_ : an intimate baring of her soul, made all the more obvious now that he'd read the first page. She trusted him as her advisor and a _friend,_ and he had no reason to invade her privacy, even if what he'd read left him deeply unsettled in his worry.

He was a man of discipline, and he would not be defeated by curiosity.

* * *

 

And yet her words haunted him all throughout his meal, the usual cheerful chatter in the tavern doing little to distract him where he’d taken his seat in one of the darker corners to brood over his food. The book hadn't been hidden. Maybe it _wasn't_ her journal. Maybe it was simply filled with notes.

 _On nightmares about suffocation?_ He chuckled grimly to himself, taking a gulp from his mug, the ale settling like a lump of iron in his belly. _Or maybe you're jealous of_ whoever _it is that’s caught her eye._

Another bitter swallow as the urge to charge back up to his office to find that page, to read until he had a _name—_ Blackwall, maybe?—had his legs twitching. He'd always been the _trusted_ one: the man his superiors could hand any note, any message, for delivery without fear that he'd take a peek inside. It had been a point of pride with him, that he could resist such temptations. He'd trusted the chain of command; that they’d tell him personally of anything he needed to know.

His hand clenched. _And look what that got me._ A burned-down city, torture, and enough nightmares to feed a fear demon for months. Maybe if he'd looked, broken the seal on those missives Meredith sent along his path, he'd have been able to prevent what happened in Kirkwall. And now, the stakes were even higher.

_And what if that man she mentioned is dangerous? What if the nightmares are leaving her sleepless and clumsy before a fight, or worse: what if the mark is changing how she moves in the Fade? How she sees demons?_

He passed his hand over his face. They were poor excuses—Guinevere was not Meredith, and he could never believe her to be so even in his darkest imaginings. Besides, looking at suspicious orders was one thing. Snooping through a private journal was another beast entirely. It didn't matter _who_ Guinevere was interested in. It was inappropriate. He couldn't imagine how angry she'd be if she knew he was even considering it.

And that was part of it, wasn't it? He cared for her, deeply, and what she thought of him. Perhaps that fed his desire to read the journal even more than his curiosity. He was concerned. He, more than anyone, knew the effect nightmares, that kind of emotional trauma, could have on one’s psyche. It changed them, left them trapped and struggling to breathe; not to mention the weight of the mark on her hand and the entire Inquisition resting on her shoulders. She hadn't spoken about her problems to the others, as far as she knew, and he'd only gotten snatches of it from her. The thought of her struggling through that _alone,_ all while some handsome vulture circled...

He finished off his mug and waved for another. He had a feeling he needed it.

 

* * *

 

He swayed, eyeing the journal on his desk. Really, he was doing the right thing, he thought as he stroked the cover gently. The leather called to him, soft under his callused fingertips, though not quite as soft as her skin. It was for her good that he did this, not his, after all. He had a duty, as her friend, to make sure she was alright, and that _whoever_ it was that had her interest wasn't taking advantage of her. It was also for the good of the Inquisition, to ensure she was in the best possible mind. And if he found nothing, he could simply return it before she came back, with no harm done. Far better he should do this than Leliana.

The most _logical_ place to start was right where he'd left off, somewhere just after Haven. He clumsily tipped the faded cover open and thumbed to the second page, licking his lips as a nervous energy filled him, anticipation coiling in his gut at the lines of black ink that blurred before coming into focus when he blinked a few times. Maybe he'd had a little _too_ much ale, but it didn't matter now, especially if it gave him the courage to start reading.

_'Had a long talk with Mother Dove about being the Herald. And all sorts of philosophical questions that I'm not sure I'm qualified to answer, even if Andraste tossed my arse back out of the fade herself.'_

'Mother dove' had to be Mother Giselle. He pulled down a piece of parchment and scribbled down the name and nickname. He'd need to keep track.

_'And then everyone started singing, which is sort of sweet on the one hand, and a little weird on the other. Then again, maybe if everyone broke into an inspiring song when someone needed a lift, the world would be a better place._

_Did find out Lion can sing. File that away under 'blackmail material''._

He snorted as he wrote down his own name, settling in with her journal on his lap and his feet kicked up on his desk, the liquor leaving him warm and loose-limbed. The entries appeared to be about a week apart for the most part unless something she deemed interesting happened. With a bit of reading, he managed to pick up a few more of the nicknames she'd given to the others.

 _'Nothing left of Haven, but Wolf says he has a place to go. Totally not suspicious or mysterious at all. Lovely. More surprises. And just after I’ve had a dragon dropped on me, too!’_ So Solas was the Wolf, was he? Not entirely unfitting with all the time the elf spent alone.

_'We walked today. And yesterday.'_

_'Still walking.'_

_‘Lion called me Gwen again today. I don’t think he even noticed, but the fact that we’ve gone from Herald, to Guinevere, to simply, well, ‘Gwen’... I don’t know. It feels good: a shock to my system after what feels like days, weeks, months,’_ she’d scratched out the last three words, seemingly undecided on just how long it had been, _‘forever, of being called all these official titles. Like I can be normal, and Maker knows I’m not entirely sure on where this man stands on me. He doesn’t use it often, only when we’re not being Serrah Important and Serrah Equally Important and even then, rarely. But I like it. Haven’t had someone call me that in ages and I probably wouldn’t accept it from anyone else, now.’_

His cheeks flushed. At first, the nickname—not quite an endearment, but only just—had been an accident, and he’d been mortified that he’d taken such liberties with her when he hadn’t earned it. It had slipped past his tongue a few times since, always in his distraction and only during an unofficial capacity, but he’d been careful to avoid using it whenever he remembered. Far from making her uncomfortable, however, it instead gave her far more comfort than he’d have guessed, and he swore then and there to call her Gwen more often. Any respite he had to offer was hers for the taking, the thought that he could give her even this small thing warming him.  

_'More walking.'_

_'Moose threw Mockingbird at an actual moose. That was fun.'_ Those two nicknames took him a little longer before he settled on Iron Bull and Varric.

_'We reached our destination. What? We didn't? No, because we're still walking! My non-existent kingdom for more horses.'_

He flipped ahead a little, past a page of doodles that she'd started instead of simply writing that they'd still been walking: there were people and dragons, a picture of what might have been him riding a clearly-not-anatomically-correct bear. It was obvious when she reached Skyhold.

 _'They want me to be the Inquisitor. Fuck.'_ She'd underlined that last word three times. _'As if I'm somehow qualified for this more than theological mysteries. Sure, I'm the Herald, and I've got the mark, but that could have happened to anyone. Instead, they pick a broken mage from a crumbled circle, no tactical experience outside of a few chess games and the mage version of a snowball fight, and now they want me to lead an army and play politics? Professionally?_

_Thought they would have had more sense than that. Lion should, at least, though Fox has just as little excuse since she's supposed to know my background more than anyone else. And Badger. Shouldn't she be scoffing at this? Canary gets a pass. She’s always so bloody optimistic and is probably used to this sort of thing.’_

He'd known about Guinevere's doubts, of course; they all had, but she'd also been the best choice, one he’d supported wholeheartedly. She was a leader. The people eagerly followed her as a figure, eager to rally around her. She was kind, surprisingly wily, with no dangerous lust for power, and relatively unsullied in terms of a criminal reputation. Her status as a mage had been easy enough to deal with, and as for tactics and politics, well, that was why she had advisors.

He shook his head as he wrote down Leliana, Cassandra, and Josephine's names. They all could have been more encouraging in those weeks after Haven. He’d had no idea her own worries about her lack of experience ran this deep. If he had, he’d have spent a bit more time trying to pound into her head her own value; but then, she was incredibly stubborn, and all that might have done was solidify her beliefs that they were simply pandering to her out of necessity.

_‘At least I get my own room so no one can hear me scream anymore when the nightmares wake me up. I think last night was the first time I did it and no one came running._

_Obviously, I'm supposed to be able to control them. I'm a fucking mage.'_ She'd scribbled in a few bolts of lightning for emphasis. _'Being aware in the Fade is one of the few benefits we get. Yes, demons, temptation, blah-blah, but I can also do some frolicking, perhaps even have a few sexcapades (don’t tell Mockingbird I used that word) with certain people. Like, well, I’m sure you remember  who from my last journal (I'm fairly sure this is the only way I'll ever get him in bed and Maker, that is pathetic. Now I’m glad that last journal got left behind so that record is gone).'_ There was that mystery man again. Still no name, and she seemed determined not to use it, but it only solidified his suspicion that this figure was far from worthy of her. A man who didn’t notice Gwen was either a fool, preferred other men, or was already taken. _'But the mark seems to... I don't know. It changes things. The nightmares are much stronger, out of my control where I could have sent them away before. And it's easier to forget myself - forget that it's not real. And then I'm suffocating in the snow again, or staring at Fox’s back as she fights off the reds in that other time, and it's all so real. The mark's always sparking when I wake up from those nightmares._

_It hurts so very badly. I'm worried I'll wake one day and find I've cut my hand away. Maybe they’ll get me a hook or something and I can become a pirate like in the stories?’_

Cullen blew out a sigh, the sick feeling in his chest sobering him quickly, despite her jesting. He'd read the reports, so he knew Guinevere was referring to the dark future she'd experienced in Redcliff, and the future Leliana holding the line long enough for Dorian and Guinevere to escape. But that report had been entirely matter-of-fact, with no mention of how Guinevere had taken it afterwards. He'd known it was bad. He'd found himself breaking into her cabin in Haven once when he'd heard her thrashing, helped her keep quiet until the shakes stopped, but other than that, she'd seemed alright. He should have known better.

And the pain... that was an even greater cause for concern, if she was that worried about losing her hand. Was it even possible for the mark to affect the rest of her body? He'd have to remember this, perhaps quietly and privately question Solas about it.

He kept reading. After that, and for the next few weeks'-worth of entries, it was mostly personal anecdotes and musings aside from the brief notes on nightmares.

 _‘Skyhold’s sort of a mess. I’m not sure why we’re spending so much time on drapery when we’ve still got giant cobwebs and rubble in the main hall, but I’ve been told there are, ‘more important things to do than take care of the_ giant fucking spider _and his web large enough to catch an Orlesian. We have tapestries to hang, Inquisitor!’ Spoken like a man who’s never had a bear-sized arachnid dropped upon his head.'_ She'd added a helpful illustration of a tiny figure in Inquisition armor being crushed beneath a googly-eyed spider that, according to scale, would have indeed been roughly the size of a small horse _. 'He'll regret it when that spider devours his family and all that he loves. I'd laugh, but I'll be too busy trying to burn Skyhold down.'_

He knew her too well to say he didn't think she'd do it.

_‘Lion admitted he’d been worried I was going to die. I was worried I was going to die. So we were both worried together. He swore it wouldn’t happen again and I tried not to look stupid when I felt all fuzzy inside._

_Maker’s breath, I’m so bad at this. I’ve got no chance.’_

Ah yes. That moment. He still remembered the fear that had gripped him, the fear that had forced his promise past his lips. Her apparent surprise at the declaration no doubt had mostly to do with his former status as a templar. He’d met more than one mage understandably skeptical of such an insistence, and his oath had been more fierce and heartfelt than most, considering his feelings towards her.

“And of course you have a chance,” he muttered to himself. She’d just needed a little practice accepting such promises. Nobles were more than happy to pledge themselves to her protection, now. Should he have made his promise again, it most likely would not have stood out to her for no other reason than that she valued his word.

The next page had her out in the field again, and the entries turned towards mentions of adventures she got into on her journeys: things that never made it into reports, and which he read with great interest. 

_‘Moose and Peacock said there was no path up but fuck them. I’m going straight up and I’ll toss them down a rope. The way around will take far too long, and Otter agreed with me, because he know what he's talking about, and said we should all be able to go straight up like goats and wondered why rocks made themselves so unclimbable in the first place? Which I can only agree with wholeheartedly as I gather my strength up for another try._

_I will not be defeated by something so inconsequential as a sheer cliff-side not fit for human hands and feet_.’

Otter could be none other than Cole: small, vaguely-cuddly looking with big, soft eyes and a nasty bite. It was a fitting enough nickname. He was more disappointed to find, however, that his soldiers’ reports of Gwen’s bizarre obsession with scrambling up impossible and ridiculous paths were confirmed. He just hoped she didn’t really drive her horse up near-vertical angles or chuck jars of bees at giants.

 _'Hinterlands today. Normally the opposite of exciting. Today I was determined to do something different. I told them I thought I'd seen the dragon leave, and that we should be safe just in case and take all our gear, which was great because I hadn't_ _actually seen the dragon leave. I kind of just wanted to get a closer look because, you know, dragon.'_ A remarkably detailed sketch of a Ferelden Frostback took up the rest of the page. It took him a moment to notice the tiny animals poking at its clawed feet; presumably Guinevere and company. He flipped to the next page to find her continued thoughts.

' _There were some ore deposits down there we needed, too, so I had a good excuse._   _I'm going to just tell everyone we accidentally stumbled into it and couldn't get away. I don't know if they'll buy it but I'll distract them with the head we’re bringing back. Probably have a feast and everything.'_ He narrowed his eyes. He’d always suspected she had some sort of hidden fascination with dragons, or maybe just with killing them, but he’d never have guessed she’d gone looking for that first dragon of her own volition.

 _‘Pretty sure Moose wanted to fuck afterwards cause killing it got him all riled and he's weird like that.'_ Cullen grimaced, something bitter twisting inside him at finally finding the answer to his question. It shouldn’t have surprised him. Bull was, well, large and charismatic, handsome in his own way. He and Guinevere always seemed to get along well. Cullen tried to shrug the sudden clawing misery off. Iron Bull was far from a _poor_ choice, and certainly better than a lyrium-addicted ex-Templar.

 _'But I said no and sent him over to Peacock. There was a time I might have said yes, but that was before. Now I know that even if I let Moose throw me over his shoulder and cart me off, I wouldn't be able to stop thinking about you-know-who, which is irritating, because I wouldn't have minded have a good roll after a good fight like that.'_ And then, almost as if to spite him, she added, _'And yes, I still don't dare write that down that name or even the nickname. I do that and it's real, even here in the journal, and I'm going to put that off for as long as possible. Maybe I’m a coward or maybe if I just don’t make that written connection long enough, it will go away.'_

Or maybe she didn't answer his question at all. Cullen rubbed at his jaw, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in as relief had him sinking back into his chair. It at least ruled out Iron Bull and Dorian as Guinevere's suitors, or rather, Moose and Peacock, who may or may not be... _dallying_ themselves if the doodle in the margins was any indication. The mental image the nicknames conjured had him grimacing in displeasure as he flipped to the next page, half-expecting another amusing-but-otherwise-unhelpful story about the antics they got up to, but much to his surprise, he got something more… intimate.

_‘All those thoughts after the dragon left me bothered yesterday and followed me into the Fade like the bastards they are, hounds baying at my heels. I tried to sleep as best I could. Tossed and turned for a while, and I couldn’t very well shove my hand down my trousers with everyone sleeping so close by. I mean, I had my own tent, sure, but I’ve gotten out of practice at keeping quiet since I left the Circle. Always had far too much trouble being noisy, and I couldn’t exactly start moaning his name if I wanted to keep this a secret.’_

Cullen sat up straighter, hand clenching on the pages as the words stirred his imagination… and another part of him. He thumbed the page, debating with himself whether to skim past it. This clearly wasn’t something to do with nightmares or the mark on her hand. _But the mystery man’s name could be there…_ He licked his lips. _Maybe just a little more._

_‘Once I hit the Fade, there was no easing into the dream. One moment, I was awake. The next, I’m pinned against the wall and his mouth was on mine, like he was devouring me, as he worked my trousers down. It was all rather sudden, and he wasn’t as warm or as scarred as he should be, but I wasn’t exactly in the mood to argue. I was too busy opening my mouth to taste him—certain scars in particular—and wishing his hands would untie my laces faster.’_

His trousers were becoming far, far too tight. He adjusted himself with a grunt, ignoring the spike of pleasure his own touch sent racing up his spine. He was _not_ going to jerk off while reading the Inquisitor’s journal. He had standards, _morals._ Unfortunately, he also still had nothing to go on. Just about every man in Skyhold had scars, of varying colors and severity.

 _‘I know what his skin feels like, of course, but I’ve never been able to really,_ truly _touch it, feel it like I’d wanted. There, in the Fade, I could run my hands across his back at my leisure, take my time to press my mouth to his throat. The whole time, he just rolled his hips against me, letting me explore before he’d finally had enough and settled me up higher so he brush his tongue across my—‘_

Cullen shuddered as he flipped the book shut, his face burning, mouth dry. He felt a new kind of shame even as desire sang in him, thickening his blood until it flowed heavy in his veins. Clearly that was enough reading for tonight. He could keep going in the morning, hopefully with a bit more control of himself, and a bit less alcohol.

  
The visual conjured up by her words, however—her willing, pliant body pinned to the wall beside his door as he drove himself inside her—refused to leave him. It chased him up the ladder, following him into the Fade where he dreamed of warm, freckled skin and soft moans, all while the taste of vanilla lingered on his tongue.


End file.
